Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle: Dark Angels
by darcyfarrow
Summary: For #a-monthly-rumbelling, December prompts: grasshopper, temple, robe, rain. Jo and Cerise work feverishly to find the three elements they will need to free Mr. Gold from the Darkness: the Sorcerer's Hat, the Spell of Exorcism, and a place to imprison the Darkness.


_"Dark angels follow me_  
 _Over a godless sea_  
 _Mountains of endless falling,_  
 _For all my days remaining._

 _What would be true?_  
 _Sometimes I see your face,_  
 _The stars seem to lose their place_  
 _Why must I think of you?_  
 _Why should I cry for you?"_

 _-"Why Should I Cry for You," Sting_

* * *

I pick at my dinner that night. It's no reflection on Jo's cooking, of course. I'm overwhelmed and struggling to hold myself together long enough to explain to Jo what happened. He senses that and scoots his chair closer to mine, so he can hold me. I can't finish telling him the full story, but I learn it isn't necessary: when I finally put myself back together, Jo, still stroking my back, confesses, "He asked the same thing of me."

We don't sleep that night. We just hold each other in the dark. Exhausted in the dawn, I lift my head from his chest and start the question we've been avoiding all night: "We aren't going—"

"No, no, of course not." Jo's eyes are glistening in the morning light.

"No," I agree, my voice faint.

* * *

Amy folds her hands in her lap, her elbows resting on her knees. "I was hoping you'd have a few more years under your belt before this happened."

"What are you talking about?" My foot taps wildly against the natural wood of her apartment floor, creating an echo.

"Unfortunately, the professors don't cover this in school."

I snort. "No, they don't." It takes me a minute to catch her meaning. "Are you saying they should?"

"It would be wise. Not that a gerontologist can ever be prepared. Or get used to it."

I throw my hands into the air. "Get used to a patient asking her to help him kill himself?" When she nods slowly, I become even more agitated. "Are you saying this happens _a lot_?"

"Not a lot," she tries to reassure me with a pat on my shaking knee. "But. . . remember, our patients are nearing the end of their lives. Many of them have health issues, loneliness and depression, a sense of futility, a feeling that they've been forgotten."

"Yeah," I snap. I know all that already. I want answers I can use. "That's why the Homes hire gerontologists, not just recreational directors. How do I get him out of this?"

"You've done everything possible to give him a sense of purpose, a connection with the outside world. We may be past the time for programs."

I start to shout. "Jo and I are working on a cure. He knows that, but he has no faith in us. He says we should drop it, just live our own lives, enjoy being young. We're not giving up—"

"No. But you are going to continue to be there for him, a listening ear, a shoulder to lean on, if he's willing. And you're going to admit to yourself that you can't fix everything."

My hands are glowing, reminding me that maybe I _can_. It was done once, why not now?

Amy's hands clasp over mine. "No. Magic isn't always the answer."

"Well, what is? Who can fix this?"

"As the poet Rumi said, 'The wound is the place where the Light enters you.' Let the Light do its work for him." Amy brushes a hot tear from my cheek.

* * *

I can't just sit around and wait for some greater power to step in, as Amy wants me to do. Mr. Gold's life has purpose beyond the pawnshop and the properties, beyond the teaching of magic and the curse-creating, beyond the town monster and the wise man everyone turns to for answers, beyond even the family he raised and the generations they raised. I believe that the House residents and the community need him, even in his present state.

And if I'm honest, most important to me, Jo and I need him.

I run that night from Amy's apartment to the convent. Blue and the others are in the dining room, having their austere dinner, which is perfect for my purposes; I go to the back door, which leads into a mud room, which leads into the laundry room, which leads into the kitchen. The house recognizes me and normally would grant me ready admittance, but it reads my vital signs and detects that I've come with ill intent, so it remains locked to my touch. I stand on tiptoe outside one of the kitchen windows, in wait until Astrid comes in, bearing dirty dishes, and then I tap on the glass. She raises the window for me. "Please, I have to talk to you. In the laundry."

She sets the dishes in the sink before coming around to the back door. "Are you in some sort of trouble?"

"In private," I hiss, and without hesitation she follows me to the laundry room. I explain the situation in as few words as possible, without giving away too much of Mr. Gold's personal matters. "So, you can see, it's rather urgent. We're going through all of Mr. Gold's books, but he has very little about light magic, whereas the convent. . . ." I let the sentence dangle, replacing words with a hopeful smile.

"Three hundred sixty-one volumes," Astrid supplies promptly, as if I'd quizzed her. It makes sense that she'd know the number; she dusts those books. "Plus an index. You probably remember: you spent the summer of your freshman year in high school writing that index. You want me to let you into the library while Blue's not here?"

"I was thinking it would safer to sneak the books out, perhaps a half-dozen at a time. I could conjure a set of lookalikes to take their place on the shelf for the few days that I'd need those books. I wouldn't keep any of them for more than two days, I promise. Just long enough to scan them into the computer, to study later."

"Cerise." Astrid looks sad, as though she's just caught me in a crime. "That's a form of stealing."

"Not when I'm bringing the books back."

"It's still dishonesty, a betrayal of Blue's trust. And worse, it's disobedience. She is the authority here, placed here by the Fates themselves. A violation of the order created by the Fates. We'd all get in serious trouble."

"I don't want to get you into any trouble, Astrid. Of course not. But a few books at a time, just to borrow, I promise. A life's at stake, Astrid. Someone I care about deeply."

"Don't assume that Blue doesn't care too." Astrid places a hand on my arm. "Her position puts great responsibility on her shoulders. She doesn't come across as warm and friendly as we can afford to be, because she has to lead us at the same time she has to protect and enforce the law. But she does love you, and I can guarantee you, she likes Josiah and cares about Mr. Gold. Talk to her, Cerise. You owe her a chance."

"One book," I plead. "Just one book tonight. I'll bring it back in the morning. Okay, maybe I'm too ambitious, thinking I can get rid of the Darkness. But in the course of researching the Apprentice's spell, maybe I'll come across a way to stop Mr. Gold's blackouts, give him his strength and his hope again. Or at least ease his pain and depression. I'm a healer. Blue's said so herself. The Fates gave me that gift so that I can serve my patients. Maybe it's their will that I find something to help Mr. Gold. Please, Astrid."

"Those are noble goals, but in your efforts to do good for someone else, don't let yourself fall into wrongdoing. Remember, that's what Mr. Gold did: he took on the Darkness to save the Frontlands children from dying in battle. Look where it led him, the misery it caused him and all of us. Don't go it alone like he did, little one. Talk to Blue." She kisses my forehead.

* * *

I'm storming, banging pots and pans around as we prepare dinner that night. I feel safe to storm in front of Jo; he permits me my anger, along with all the other negative emotions that would scare most boyfriends away. "I have a right to use those books. They don't belong to Blue alone. They belong to the tribe."

Jo gives me a raised eyebrow that says what his voice is too polite to say: so now you're claiming a place in the tribe, after years of separating yourself from them. Now, when it benefits you, you're claiming fairyhood. But he doesn't say this; he just lets me rage on while he chops vegetables.

I'm starting to wind down. My storms never last long. "It's for good. That's why I need to take those books, to do good. Good that she should be helping us with."

Jo concentrates on the celery he's chopping. "Does the motive justify the means?"

I don't hesitate to cut fine hairs when it suits me. "It's not stealing. It's borrowing. without permission."

His tone is still even-keeled. "You're going to take those books, regardless of what I say."

I set a pot of water down on the stove. "Set temperature to boil," I instruct the stove. This gives me a moment for the storm's remnants to blow away. "Yeah. I'd rather commit theft than leave a man to suffer so. Don't tell me you wouldn't do the same."

"No, I can't say I wouldn't."

"Or that if I asked her permission, Blue wouldn't say no and lock those books up from me."

"No, I can't say she wouldn't. I'll help you. I just feel uncomfortable about stealing from nuns."

I try to catch him out. "So now they're nuns, not fairies."

"The theft seems worse that way."

* * *

At Sunday dinner at the convent, while Jo and Blue chat convivially (he prepares for this, every Saturday, jotting lists of interesting things that have happened in town or that he's read about, just so he'll have something to talk about. Have I mentioned lately what a sweetheart this man is?) I excuse myself for the bathroom. Nothing out of the ordinary there. But once into the corridor that leads toward the bathroom, I take a sharp detour into the library. It's not kept locked; the fairies are welcome to go in and read at any time. Encouraged to, in fact: they're expected to read books about Christian thought as well as books that will expand their capacity for magic.

I dare to be gone only five minutes. With my bracelet phone I take pictures of each page in the index, then I carefully replace the index on its stand. I sneak back into the corridor. Tonight I'll make notes from my photos so I can plan which books to steal next Sunday. I figure I can take two at a time and slip them into my tote bag, the bag I carry my contribution to Sunday dinner in. I'll "replace" them with substitutes: copies of romance novels that I've covered with a glamour spell so that on the outside, they look like their predecessor. I'll have one week for us to study those books.

And pray that one of the nuns doesn't try to use the books I've swiped while I have them in my possession.

* * *

"I have a little news." Our food stands cold and untouched before us: a beef wellington that we'd planned for, for days, and that we worked on all of this evening. Now that it's done and beckoning, neither of us has an appetite. My belly is full of frustration; pouring it out on Jo hasn't eased the discomfort. His belly, he admits, has answered in sympathy to mine. "Just a small thing, but it's kind of odd." He breaks a rosemary roll apart and butters both halves, but there's no enthusiasm in his motions—so unlike him for a well-prepared meal. I feel a little guilty for having taking that pleasure away from him tonight.

"What happened, Jo?" I make my voice artificially bright.

"A conversation I had with Mr. Gold this morning. I called on routine business: the tenants that have been renting the Malibu house gave notice. So, just like usual, I told Mr. G. I'd hire the cleaning crew next week, get the house ready before I put it on the rental market. But he said no, don't put it on the market. Wait. He said just clean it up and let it sit a while. He might want to do something different with it."

My smile drops. "You don't suppose he's thinking of selling?"

Jo shrugs, biting into his roll. "It's his house. He has the right."

"Maybe he decided that since he can never go back there, he might as well be free of it." I lower my unused fork. "It doesn't have to stop our vacations. There are lots of nice hotels in the area."

"It's been a good moneymaker for him over the years. I don't know why. . . .Maybe there are too many memories attached to it."

"Mr. Gold likes his memories." My mouth twists ruefully. "Some days, it's practically a fistfight between him and Smee as to who gets into the holodeck first."

"Well, whatever it is." Jo sips his tea. "Maybe he'll tell me, maybe he won't. He can keep his secrets. He's a client, not a. . . ." He pokes with his fork at the other half of his roll.

"Yes he is." I set my hand atop Jo's. "He is too a friend. I'm sure he'll tell you what he's thinking at some point."

"Meantime, he wants to redecorate. So that's good. He wants us to meet with some decorators—not—"

"Greenie Keres," we say in unison, with a laugh.

"And choose something we really like. Money's no object."

I dig in my feet. "I think the house is perfect the way it is. Every room reminds me of Belle and Joy and Gideon. I can almost hear their voices."

"I kind of like the idea, that if someone else is going to own that house, the Golds' spirit will live on through it. So it's settled, then."

"It's settled."

"I'll call in the cleaners and have them prepare it as usual." Jo picks up his fork. "And then we'll wait and see."

* * *

I find Gold in the holodeck, soothing himself with a simple memory of a family Monopoly game. Joy, whom I estimate to be about seven in this memory, controls the terrier as her game piece; Gid has the race car, of course, but he appears more interested in examining its design that in moving it around the board; Belle has chosen the top hat and with a giggle and a wink to Joy, she positions it on her head before placing it in a square, and Rumple has the thimble and there's a faraway look in his eyes as he glances occasionally at the Great Wheel, now mostly part of the Early American décor, in the corner of the living room. They're playing but each of them is more interested in something other than the game. Joy's pelting out questions about the anatomy of dogs, most of which her father is able to answer, while Gid is illustrating for his mother principles of thermodynamics with the race car. They seem to have forgotten to keep track of their stacks of cash. They're chewing popcorn and sipping soda as they play.

I want that, I find myself thinking. Not money or awards or magic. I want _that_.

I approach him, resting my hand on the back of his wheelchair. He's half asleep; that's good, I think; he's teetering on exhaustion; although I wish I could persuade him to eat a snack before I wheel him off to bed. Lady visited this morning; his suit jacket is dotted with her fur. He prefers it that way, I know, otherwise Andy would have brushed his jacket for him. He likes the faint smell of dog.

I came here to reveal to him what Jo and I have been working on. We haven't discussed it with him before, because we didn't want him to attempt to dissuade us from a task he considers impossible. We had hoped to wait until we'd accomplished one of our goals before we took our plan to him. But it's been six months now and though we've learned a lot, we're no closer, and we feel guilty for keeping a secret from him that could affect his future. "He may be able to direct us," Jo concluded last night, and that made our minds up. I'm tired and discouraged and I've just spent the last two hours reading a diatribe written by one of the early Reul Ghorms, yammering on about how some sacrifices are necessary for the greater good, such as the decision the gods made eons ago to create a Dark One in order to contain the darkness and minimize the harm it could do.

So I'm here to come clean, but as his head swings around to look at me, something in his eyes makes me realize I have nothing new to tell him. "You know what Jo and I are working on."

"Yes."

"Do we have your approval?"

"How can I say no, when what you do is done out of love? I only worry that you're spending all your free time in a futile endeavor, when you should be out enjoying life and each other."

I punch a button on the wheelchair's control panel and the Monopoly game fades away, replaced by my memory of one of his memories from an earlier holodeck session: a middle-aged Belle is slumped on a couch, a book propped on her chest, while nearby, a middle-aged Rumple, also book-laden, rocks in rocking chair. "It seems to me we're in good company."

Gold chuckles. "Yeah, we spent many hours researching a release from the darkness. It may not look it, but we were enjoying each other's company throughout all those hours." He lowers his head, almost quickly enough that I'd have missed an unfamiliar glint in his eyes if I hadn't been studying him so closely. Later, throughout the night, I'll analyze that glint until I finally admit I can't interpret it: hope? Satisfaction? Guilt? _Victory_?

But that afternoon, I'm too eager to make a modicum of progress toward our goal, if I can. And still, though we live in a town where magic abounds and on every street corner you'll bump into another spellcaster, no one in this world knows more about magic that Mr. Gold does. "Everyone who witnessed the Apprentice dislodging the Darkness from you is long gone, and I know you were unconscious during the transference," I begin, "but perhaps you can give us some direction? You've must have thought about it. . . a lot."

He nods, appearing shamefaced. "A failing of human nature, to obsess over the things we can't have."

I dig into my pocket and show him my list:

"1. Find the Apprentice's hat. Learn how it works.

2\. Find the spell for extracting the Darkness.

3\. Find a permanent prison for the Darkness and a safe means to transport it there."

I begin, "From Henry's storybook, we know what the hat looks like. But as to how it works or the spell the Apprentice used—the book is vague on that. We've read through all of Henry's writings, everything that the library has, but to no avail."

"Henry may have been a little discombobulated at the time. He was still a very young author at the time, prone to getting swept up in the events rather than simply observing them."

"Seven adults were there, including the Apprentice. We've been going through the library, looking for anything they've written. David and Hook kept no journals, wrote no letters. Sheriff Kwan-Wolfe agreed to let us into his office's archives, to see the police reports David and Emma wrote from that day. The sheriff kinda felt he owed Jo a favor. Anyway, that's how we got the list of all the adults who were there. And we've got a pretty good idea of the exorcism itself: no wands or other magic implements were used, just the spell and the hat. No one recorded the incident on a phone, or, it seems, was able to recall the wording of the spell. The sheriff has no record of what happened to the hat after the exorcism. We'd hoped, because it was evidence in a criminal case—"

Gold shrugs. "I'm sure the representatives of law enforcement who were present at the time weren't acting in their official capacity. And most likely, the scene was bewildering and frightening to them. Had I been conscious at the time, I would have taken great care to record the spellcasting. Not only as a student of magic but as someone who might need that spell again at some point. You can be sure of it."

"Jo's got feelers out, in case someone on the seedier side might have it. Without specifying what the hat's for, he's let it be known he's offering a reward. Well, there was one other student of magic present at the exorcism: Belle. We're reading through the library's holdings for her writings, but so far, it seems everything they have relates to her work in running the library. We were hoping you might. . . ."

He nods. "She kept diaries and research notes." His voice drops nearly beyond the hearing range. "Baby journals. Scrapbooks. A mountain of photos."

I grab his hand. "Can we see them?"

He doesn't meet my eyes. "Lost in the house fire. Ironic, I suppose. The most likely source of information to save me was destroyed by me."

"Accidentally," I remind him, squeezing his hand. Can he feel the small pulse of healing magic I'm sending through to him? "Your magic went haywire."

"Her wedding bouquet. White carnations. We preserved it in glass. The little white t-shirt the hospital dressed Joy in, in her first hour of life. The sweater Gid wore on his first day of school." Grief will overtake him now, if I don't intervene.

"Mr. Gold, if there was any way to bring any of those treasures back, I'd pour every ounce of my magic into it. I understand what they meant to you. But we have a chance now to undo some of the damage of the past, if we can locate the hat and find the details of the spell."

He swallows his pain and attempts, unsuccessfully, to lift his head. "Those tasks will be difficult, but perhaps not impossible. The impossible part, as the Apprentice learned, was containing the Darkness."

"We only need to contain it for a short while, just long enough to portal it somewhere else. Legends say that there are uninhabitable realms where people will never go. Jo and I plan to move the Darkness there, where it can never infect anyone again."

"A noble idea. Yes, I've heard those legends, though I never pursued them. I was only interested in learning of the realms where I might find Bae. It. . . may be. . . doable."

"You give us your blessing, then?" I may be jumping to a conclusion, but I need to nudge him out of his heartbreak. "And you'll help us?"

"How can I not, seeing as it's for my own benefit?" He manages now to lift his head and meet my eyes.

"Great!" I clap my hands. "We can digitize some of the stuff we find in the library and pipe it through to the House's system so you can read it. Or we can take you out to the library, when you feel up to it. Andy can come, handle the books for you."

"I'd like that." He navigates his wheelchair so it faces a wall. "We need to open a few treasure chests. House, call the director of Storybrooke Public Library. Mr. what's his name?"

"Ms. Bernice Ranganathan."

"Call her." Gold explains over his shoulder, "There's a special collection, very special archival collection, that only Ms. Ranganathan and I can grant access to. She as the keeper, I as the owner. In fifty years no one has been allowed to know of its existence, let alone see it. Until today. I doubt if you'll find your answers there, but let us be thorough in our research, as Belle would have."

A few firm words (and an ID retina scan) from Mr. Gold and Jo and I now are honored guests with access to the unnamed special collection. I want to thank Mr. Gold with a hug, I want to continue on with my to-do list, reading it aloud so perhaps he'll point me in other new directions, but his body seems to have grown too heavy for his energy level.

He pushes a button on his wheelchair, resuming the Monopoly game. "One more minute here, Sparrow, and then I'll go to bed and you can go back to your books. But stay with me for just that minute, won't you?"

As Joy's terrier lands on the jail square and she squeals in alarm, Rumple pushes his entire stack of toy bills toward her. "Here, sweetie, I'll bail you out."

"You can't do that, Dad," Gid protests. "It's against the rules."

"Then the rules need to be changed."

"That's right," I murmur in agreement with Rumple. "Screw the Reul Ghorms and their 'necessary sacrifices.' The rules need to be changed."

* * *

"The fact that he's working with us," Jo surmises, "indicates that he thinks there's a chance we'll succeed. Maybe a faint one, but a chance. Mr. Gold is a frugal man, even when it comes to his time."

"And not one to allow us to continue down a path of false hope." I reach for my spatula. "Here, how about another serving of beef wellington?"

Sweat dampens my hair and stings my eyes as I drain my last ounce of magical energy through my hands and into Gold's. Exhausted, I flop onto his couch, unable to move another muscle or speak coherently. Gold's faint smile offers sympathy as he waggles a finger at the tea tray on his coffee table. "Drink some tea, Sparrow. And eat every last one of those cookies."

I know he's right: in one of the earliest of our magic lessons together, he worked me hard through an exercise in magic that, he revealed later, was meant to exhaust me. He wanted me to experience for myself what the penalty for overexertion would be: "You'll never forget how this feels. It's not like anything in the human experience. It can immobilize you for days. You need to recognize the symptoms so you'll know when to stop using your magic before it's too late."

I've come pretty near that fine line. It was foolish of me, as his smile attests; he'd warned me before we even began that this attempt would fail. But I had to try. I just can't bear watching him deteriorate as he has been.

"I'm a healer," I whimper before gulping the cold tea.

"Yes. A talented one."

"A natural-born one." I ignore the fact that fairies aren't born.

"Yes. It's woven in the fibers of your being."

"So why can't I—" I gesture feebly toward his frail body, slumped, just as it was ten minutes ago, in the wheelchair. Frustrated, I practically demand his body to straighten. "I put everything I had into this. Why can't I at least alleviate some of your pain, give you some strength?" With a sliver of hope in my eyes, I lean forward, before having to fall back onto the couch again.

But he doesn't offer me any hope. We respect each other too much to deceive. "Eat the cookies, dear one, before you faint."

I stuff an entire snickerdoodle into my mouth, but it doesn't prevent me from getting a sentence out: "I healed a dog's broken leg yesterday. Why can't I at least give you the strength to raise your hand?"

"I'm having a bad day, I suppose." He's been having a lot of those lately. "I do thank you for trying, though. It was a noble and powerful attempt."

"Back to the books," I growl.

* * *

"Yes, it's true I can open the hat with my dagger," Mr. Gold explains, "and the power of the hat is sufficient to drag a user of Light magic into it, trapping him or her inside. But the Darkness." He snorts. "There is no other force in the universe like the Darkness. Just getting it inside the hat is a herculean feat. Keeping it there is another matter entirely."

"So we have to have the Spell of Dark Exorcism." That's what Jo and I have been calling it—we've found no mention of it anywhere, so we know of no official name for it.

"We have to have the spell," Gold agrees. "And much more, to lock the Darkness inside. Something outside my circle of experience."

Jo glances at me. "Pastor Dylan would call that a miracle."

"So it's not outside the realm of possibility, then." I jut my chin out.

* * *

In the back of my mind, in my sleep as well as my waking moments, I hear a clock ticking. Not just one of those little old-fashioned clocks either, but a big old grandfather clock that gongs at the start of every hour, a little louder each day until eventually, the striker will shatter the gong completely.

During my lunches, my coffee breaks and my days and nights off, I'm reading books of magic. We figure out pretty early on that we can't skim, picking out keywords as we would with modern texts: we have to read closely. The languages in which these tomes were written don't all use the same terminology, so the computer translator, which goes for a direct interpretation of a word, requires a lot of human help. Take the phrase _Dark One_ , for example. That's an invention of the fairies: Blue the First came up with that phrase, so in Fairy it's a simple translation: _Deluchese._ _Luch_ meaning _light, de_ negating the noun it precedes, _ese_ signifying a singular, one of a kind. But the superstitious Leprechauns believe that it's bad luck to speak or write the name of the Dark One, so we come across a variety of coy alternatives, ranging from the cross-cultural "He whose name is not named" and "the Being of whom we dare not speak" to "Vessel of Evil" and "the Root." We never do figure out how the Leprechauns got from _Dark One_ to _Root,_ but oh well, we march on.

When Dr. Marine makes his usual rounds at the Home, I take him aside in a last desperate flimsy straw grasp. "Yes, I'm quite sure," he assures me, a bit miffed, I think, that I don't seem to trust his earlier assessments. "Whatever is behind Mr. Gold's deteriorating condition, it's not physical. We've run every possible test. There's no other conclusion but the magic. What's dragging him down and, ironically, keeping him alive at the same time is the magic, his own unique dark magic. I know that for certain because I've been treating fairies, witches, elves and every other species of magic user for decades and I've never seen any symptoms like his."

"I just hoped," I mutter. Though I don't know why I hoped for a physical cause: medical problems somehow seem more curable. Or maybe it's a wish to pass the buck on to medical researchers. I think about this lapse of mine as I follow Dr. Marine on to examine Ruby. Maybe it's not really intellectual laziness on my part, but a shrinking of hope. We have spent so many hours, after all, in this endeavor and have made no progress.

* * *

It's Old Time Television Week on Storybrooke Broadcasting, and to our surprise and excitement, the SB Programming Director has come to us for participation. Normally Blue would put an immediate no to their suggestion, but with the Arbors board launching a capital campaign to raise funds for a second facility on the westside of town, the board president is encouraging we pursue any opportunities for publicity. So with reluctance, Blue signs us on, and it's the Programming Director's task to select our seven representatives. These people must be photogenic, articulate and appealing either through their charm or their wealth of knowledge, because they're going to appear for thirty minutes apiece on local afternoon broadcasting. They're to choose their favorite among the television programs that were popular in Storybrooke's first year of existence, 1983, then make an on-screen introduction to that program, extolling its virtues. One episode of the TV series will be then shown. At the end of the week, the series that has received the highest rating will become a regular feature of SB's programming and the network will donate to our capital campaign a dollar for each viewer.

It's not a bad deal, really, and I'm glad to be involved. Already it's gotten our residents excited; fourteen of them have provided screen tests. We've rehearsed them for more than a week, and volunteers from the Magic Touch School of Beauty have come in to assist our fourteen with their makeup, hair and clothing choices. The one fly in the ointment: Blue, unpredictably, wants Mr. Gold to be the fifteenth auditioner, and he, predictably, doesn't want to. Blue herself makes the plea to Mr. Gold: "The wealthy in Storybrooke listen closely to your counsel, Mr. Gold. If you say that a donation to our capital campaign is a solid contribution to the town's growth, they'll reach for their checkbooks."

He simply refuses her, with no explanation. During our daily tea break, I urge him to reconsider. I think it will be good for him, to have a project that engages him intellectually and perhaps emotionally; I don't say this to him, however. What I do say is that he's the most articulate and charming of our residents, and I want to take advantage of that, for charity's sake.

"What if I experience a blackout during the filming?" he asks.

"They'll edit it out and start filming again when you're ready."

"Do you really want me to do this, Cerise?"

"I do."

"May I ask why?"

I take in a deep breath. "We're not doing so well with the books. Jo and I are thinking we'll soon have to start making inquiries, try to find someone out there who can help us find the pieces we need to perform the exorcism. You being seen on television, that may kind of get the right people warmed up for us, for when we go knocking on doors. It's harder to say no when you're asked to help someone whose face has been in your living room recently."

"I think you may be grasping at straws, but if it's what you want, I'll do it. I have a less than fifty percent chance of being selected anyway."

I don't mention to him that, with Blue's input, his chances of winning a spot on the program are much better than he thinks. So, with the other fourteen residents, he prepares, even tolerating the application of makeup. Unlike the others, he needs no vocal coaching: he enunciates clearly and reads the cue cards as naturally as if he was speaking one-on-one to the viewer. Blue and I watch and cheer and comfort from the sidelines as our auditioners undergo their tests. Smee takes himself out of competition immediately after the screen test; he says it's too much work, but the truth is, he sweats profusely under the camera lights.

The Programming Director doesn't keep us waiting. He makes his decisions immediately after each audition. Among the winners are Ruby Lucas, Sean Herman and Mr. Gold. My friend shoots me a scowl when the announcement is made, but from that point on, he cooperates quietly, if not in the best humor.

At tea time the next morning, I find him reading on his wall a memo from the Programming Director, with instructions for the filming, to begin in two weeks. Attached to the memo is a list of the TV series that were popular in Storybrooke in 1983. Our representatives will have three days to choose the series and the episode. "Three days, that's not much time," I remark as I scan the memo over Mr. Gold's shoulder.

"I've already made my selection." With a nod to signal Andy to pour the tea, Mr. Gold presses a button on the wheelchair and brings up an image: a distant sun lowering itself over a dark horizon. In the background, a piece of music plays that's at once filled with longing, mourning and hope. The title _Kung Fu_ appears under the setting sun. Then a lone figure in a slouch hat and a ragged coat is seen walking barefoot across a desert.

"Huh." I accept my cup of tea from Andy and plop on the couch. "What's this?"

"An eastern Western," Gold answers. That's all the explanation he provides. From the first scene, I can guess why Mr. G. has chosen this show: he's a big fan of Westerns, both in film and in print. Jo and I have our theories as to why he favors this genre; he's never provided us with explanation. But there's something quirky about this particular Western, as it keep flashing back and forth between two disparate settings: a frontier town in the American West and a temple in China, where young shaven-headed monks in robes are receiving training in both philosophy and hand-to-hand combat.

"What's the connection here?" I interrupt the episode to ask before I become lost in confusion.

"This is the story of a young priest of the Shaolin order, in 1880s China. He's come to America as a fugitive, wanted for killing the Emperor's nephew in a fit of anger. Kwai Chang Caine wanders the West, searching for his long-lost brother, and encountering and rescuing the innocent from various forms of villainy, while running from justice himself."

"So he's a little bit villainous himself."

"And yet paying for his crime, just not through the legal system."

I read the title of the episode: _Aleth_ _e_ _a_. "This episode was my first introduction to television, after the curse created Storybrooke," Mr. Gold says. "I was quite taken with television—though I never would admit that to anyone. It helped me get through twenty-eight years of waiting, though at the time, I couldn't remember what I was waiting for. And something about this program in particular attracted me. I suppose it had to do with the main character's being a stranger in a strange land, and a good man trying to find his family while struggling against the failings of his own nature." Gold's mouth twitches into a smile. "And I will admit, I liked the little philosophical lessons interwoven with the fight scenes."

"Yeah," I concur. "It's almost magical, the way this guy can ward off an entire gang with just his hands and feet."

We watch the rest of the episode without interruption. It tells the story of a little girl, Alethea, who witnesses an armed robbery. Taking shelter behind a well, Alethea sees her new friend Kwai Chang catch a thrown revolver, then watches the stagecoach driver fall to the ground dead. From her perspective, she believes Caine did the shooting, but what she knows of her gentle friend doesn't jibe with what her eyes have seen. When Caine is put on trial, he encourages Alethea to tell the truth, even though it means he will be found guilty of murder. At the last minute, as Caine is led to the gallows in a pounding thunderstorm, Alethea changes her testimony, claiming she lied on the witness stand. Caine is freed, but he assists in the capture of the real killers, thus showing Alethea that she was right to defend his innocence.

It's a lovely story, well acted and well written, but it's the secondary plot that makes me take notice. That story takes us into Caine's past, where, as a twelve-year-old living in the temple, he is sent on a mission to deliver a rare and costly scroll to another temple. Young Caine sets off on his adventure, determined to live up to his master's trust. En route, he is waylaid by robbers, but is rescued by man who claims to be a magician. In gratitude for the rescue and in fascination with the possibility of seeing magic performed, Caine gives the man his trust, to his loss—the magician steals the scroll. Caine returns in shame to his temple to confess his failure. When police bring the thief and the scroll to the temple, the magician claims that he had merely borrowed the scroll with Caine's permission; he insists that Caine, owing him a favor, will verify the claim. Torn between the debt he owes the magician and the truth he owes his master, young Caine asks the police to free the magician and hold himself responsible instead. The police free the magician and leave the temple. Trembling with the certainty that he will be arrested, young Caine asks his master when the police will return for him. "Nothing more will be taken from you," the master assures him. "But your innocence, Grasshopper, how shall that be returned?"

"He made a deal he didn't understand," Gold says thoughtfully, and then I get it: through young Caine, Gold remembers his own loss of innocence, when he too naively trusted a magician.

But when I glance over at my friend, expecting to see in his eyes sadness for his own loss, instead I find him watching me, his lips parted as if to speak, and worry and guilt clouding his eyes.

"Mr. Gold? What's wrong?"

"'Each waking moment is as a rung on an endless ladder,'" he murmurs, quoting from the episode. "'Each step we take is built on what has gone before.'"

"You were robbed by a magician." I'm inviting him to let his bitterness and regret spill out, for what Zoso took from him. Though I know that story from Henry's storybook, I think it might do us both some good to discuss it.

But Gold answers me strangely: "So were you." Before I can ask for more, he shuts down, both the computer and himself. He gestures to Andy. "I find myself suddenly tired, Sparrow. I'd like to go back to bed, if you don't mind."

There is no promise to return to this conversation at a later date. I know him too well to press him, but those three words linger in the air, hanging over our heads like a noose waiting to drop.

Two weeks later, Gold gives the television camera a quiet, impersonal introduction to his chosen episode. The ratings for his broadcast are beat out by Ruby's gossipy review of _Dallas_ , but the event is deemed a success, bringing in a $5000 contribution from the network and opening the doors for the Home's board members to approach wealthy potential donors.

Eventually, I let go of the weird feeling that conversation with Mr. Gold left me with, and I feel as close to him as before. But just now and again, when I catch him staring at nothing, I hear those words again: _So were you_.

* * *

"When was the last time you and Josiah went out on a date?"

The voice startles me and I jerk my head up. "Oh!" I'm slouched over a pile of books; I straighten to signal to Mr. Gold that he has my full attention. "Come in, Mr. Gold. Shall I send for tea?"

"No, thank you, Sparrow." His wheelchair rolls over the threshold. "It was not a rhetorical question. When was the last time you and Josiah went out to dinner or a show or even fishing?"

"A while," I admit. "But we're not giving up. We're going to find a way to release you from the Darkness." There's a note of irritation in my voice that I can't hide. It's not Mr. Gold that I'm annoyed with, nor anyone else really.

"I appreciate all your efforts." He responds to my irritation with softness. "I appreciate your friendship more than I can say. But I fear the time you're losing will be for nothing. You're young and your relationship is blooming. You should be out there, enjoying life, enjoying the time you have together."

I'm going to try to outmaneuver him. "That's one way of looking at things. But another way is that working together on a project that challenges us, for the benefit of a person we care very deeply for, is bringing us together, solidifying us as a team."

Gold cocks an eyebrow. "Is it now?"

"Could be."

"Perhaps," he concedes.

I drop the tug-of-war. "We're not giving up, Mr. Gold."

"Well then." He sighs, the release of breath clearing away the last trace of his argument. "I believe I'm up for a visit to the library."

I nod, suppressing a grin. "We can go tomorrow evening. I'll have Andy accompany us."

"This is good, very good," Jo muses. "He'll know far better than we would what to look for."

"It's good for him too, to participate in his own recovery." My hand slips up toward my mouth, but Jo snatches it away before I can bite my nails.

"Maybe he has a point though, about the dating. Let's go out dancing tonight. We'll approach the books again tomorrow with rested minds."

Dancing. My Jo, who's self-conscious when he's doing anything more complex than a box step, is suggesting we go dancing. That's an offer I can't refuse, as he knows full well. I lean over to kiss him.

* * *

On Sunday mornings we go to church, at the one that the Doves have been attending for three generations. As we seat ourselves in the middle pew, I feel guilty about cutting out this time away from Mr. Gold's needs, impatient to return to the books, then guilty all over again for letting Jo down with my selfish thoughts. There's a shine in his eyes as the congregation stands to sing hymns and a relaxed droop to his shoulders as we shake hands with the pastor and file out of the pretty little building, with its walls so white and its colorful stained glass windows so cheerful. Attending church is good for Jo. He tells me it makes him feel closer to his family.

One Sunday I find myself rising to my feet when the pastor asks the congregation for prayer requests. I stutter—this is a spontaneous request, not thought out in clear phrases. "For Mr. Gold. Our friend." I wave my hand toward Jo, as though pulling him in on the request gives it a validity that I don't have on my own. Jo is smiling; he's proud of me for taking this small step closer to his church. "He's been sick a long time and getting sicker. Please pray for him."

The pastor smiles at me too, pleased, just as Jo is, that I've spoken up. He adds Mr. Gold to list of the sick and the injured that the congregation commends to God. And when we walk out into the street after the service, my shoulders have dropped too.

* * *

"I, uh, this is going to sound strange."

"Believe me, as a doctor in Storybrooke, I hear a lot of strange things." Laurel folds her arms, waiting.

"Well, it would be more accurate for me to say, it's going to sound a little shady."

"Oh?" One eyebrow shoots up.

"It involves borrowing someone else's property without their permission."

The other eyebrow shoots up. "In other words, stealing."

"With intent to return the property, promptly and undamaged."

She rests her buttock against the examining table. She sighs in frustration. "Cerise, are you ever going to come to me for a head cold or something?"

* * *

Mr. Gold can't come to the library with us tonight. He's in a blackout.

* * *

"They're suspicious," Laurel grumbles as she dumps three books onto my kitchen table. "That's all I could get before Blue came in and pelted me with questions. I blathered some excuse about brushing up on illnesses common to fairies. I had to sneak this book behind my back." She points at the title: _Memoirs of Merlin by his first apprentice_. "I can't keep this up. Cerise, why don't you just ask Blue for help?"

"She'll try to stop me. She'll says it's too dangerous."

"Maybe it is. If it is, do you really want to be remembered as the fairy who gave the Darkness free rein in this world?"

"Sit down, Laurel, and have a cup of Lemon Tisane. I'll have these books back to you in ten minutes."

* * *

We give up our fishing, our painting, our dancing and weekend trips to allow more time for research. I find my innate understanding of Modern Fairy gives me a way in to sister languages, like Elvish and Brùnaidh, and once I have a handle on those, it's a short jump to Khuzdul and Goblin. Mr. Gold reads and writes five languages—he can't speak them worth a darn, having taught himself these languages out of books. Jo has to stick with Modern English. He's also our notes organizer and footnoter, more orderly and precise than I am. Mr. Gold comes with us some days to the library, enjoying the outing, but he's always so tired when we return at night that he's wiped out the next day. We end up uploading most of the books that he chooses to study. We plod through.

Still, it's nearly Independence Day when we close the last of the library's archival books. Tomorrow looks little better: we have only three of Mr. Gold's personal collection left. We've learned a great deal about Merlin, the Apprentice, the history and original purpose of the hat, the origins of the Darkness and the lives and deaths of the Dark Ones, but the Spell of Dark Exorcism eludes us. We've been through letters, newspaper articles, personal journals and police reports, but no clue have we found toward the Sorcerer's Hat's whereabouts. We're alone in the special collections room, hidden behind the director's office: we always are. In fact, other than Ranganathan, no one knows this room exists.

"If we find it," Gold is saying—we know he means the hat—"we'll need my dagger to open it."

Jo nods. "It's safe."

My eyebrows shoot up. Jo has the Dark One dagger? I had no idea. He's never mentioned it; I've never thought to ask. But it makes sense: if I were the Dark One, there's no one in this world I'd trust more with my most valuable possession. Curiosity eats at me to ask where the dagger is hidden, but maturity insists that I have no need or right to that information at this time.

"When I first came upon it in this world, the hat was just sitting there, on a table in the Sorcerer's mansion." Even Mr. Gold, who spent some two hundred years searching for Bae, is running out of patience. "It was Belle who found the mansion. She was out strolling in an undeveloped part of town when she came upon it. No one in town claimed to own it or even have seen it before. The mansion wasn't in the land records. We never did find out who owned it or built it, and to this day, I don't know how the hat got there. But it seemed to have been intentionally left for me to find."

"Why do you say that?" Jo wonders.

"The mansion has eleven rooms. The hat just happened to be sitting out in the open, in the first room we entered. Every warning bell in my body clanged; it was too easy, obviously a set-up, probably a trap. But I ignored the warnings. It was the answer I'd been searching for, for centuries: how to keep my magic and go out into the Land Without."

"If the Fates wanted you to find it then, perhaps they'll help us to find it now," I suggest, though my stomach is churning with doubt.

"We need to help them along, Cherie." Jo scoots his chair back from the research table and lays his hand meaningfully on top of the last book. I know the look he's giving me.

"No," I break into his thoughts. "We've talked about this a hundred times."

"Eleven times, to be precise." Never argue numbers with a banker. "We have nowhere else to go. There's still nearly two hundred books in their collection that we haven't looked through."

Mr. Gold folds his hands in his lap and watches us with amusement. Behind him, Andy stands ready. Gold hasn't needed the android as much as usual today: it's a good day. Or would be, if we didn't know that a good day of mobility for Mr. G. is followed by a sleepless night.

I growl as I turn my head toward our lists glowing in an AR display above our heads. "No. It'll only backfire. If she finds out what we're doing, she'll prohibit us from setting foot in the convent. And she'll cut the other nuns off from us."

"Maybe, maybe not. Wasn't she the one who found Mr. Gold in his most recent blackout and called the ambulance?"

"That's just her job. She'd do that for anyone."

"And rode along in the ambulance to make sure he was comfortably settled? And brought him books and muffins at visiting time the next day?"

"That's different. Tampering with the balance between light and dark, that's how she'd see what we're doing. Inviting the Darkness to escape its current imprisonment to wreak havoc on the world."

"That is possible," Jo admits. We've confronted this issue many times. We're fully aware that if we are successful in freeing Mr. Gold, the Darkness may escape us before we can lock it away. After all, not even the mighty Apprentice could control the Darkness. "All the more reason we need her help. You and she and Mr. Gold together could be an unbeatable combination. And if she refuses to help us with the exorcism, she can at least grant us access to the library. Especially if she thinks there's nothing in her books to help us." He shrugs. "So she lets us look, satisfy ourselves that we can't win, and that's the end." His lips twitch as he lowers his eyes to the book. "The end," he mutters. He doesn't add it but we're both thinking it: _the end of Mr. Gold_.

I conjure a little piece of rope, frayed at both ends, and I dangle it between my fingers. Gold chuckles. "Are you suggesting you're at the end of your rope?"

I whisk the rope away. "For Mr. Gold. I'll go talk to her."


End file.
